“Certainly, if it’s something I know about.”

“Cassatt color print.”

Moment of silence. “I didn’t know you were in the market for that kind of thing.”

“Wish I were. It’s for a friend.”

“Is your friend buying or selling?”

“Maybe selling.”

“I see,” he said. “Which particular color prints?”

I told him.

He said, “Just one second,” and put me on hold for several minutes. He came back saying, “I’ve got the most recent auction figures for comparable works right here. As you know, with works on paper, condition is everything, so without inspecting it I can’t be sure. However, Cassatt’s print runs tended to be low- she was a perfectionist, had no compunctions about burnishing down her initial impressions and reworking the plates- so any decent piece would be interesting. Especially color. If you’ve indeed got the final states in excellent condition- full margins, no stains- you’ve got a couple of jewels. I could get a quarter of a million from the right client. Maybe more.”

“Both or each?”

“Oh, each. Especially in the current climate. The Japanese are crazy for Impressionism and Cassatt’s at the top of their American list. I expect her important paintings to be fetching solid seven figures very shortly. The prints actually reflect a blending of Western and Asian sensibilities- she was highly influenced by Japanese printmaking- that appeals to them. Even three hundred wouldn’t be out of the question for a really fine impression.”

“Thanks, Eugene.”

“My pleasure. Tell your friend he or she’s got a blue chip investment, but in all honesty the major appreciation probably hasn’t taken place. However, if he or she does want to sell, there’s no need to go to New York.”

“I’ll pass it along.”

“Bonsoir, Alex.”

I closed my eyes and pictured zeros for a while. Then I dialed my service and found out Robin had called.

I called her studio. When she picked up I said, “Hi. It’s me.”

“Hi. Just wanted to see how you were doing.”

“Pretty well. Still out here on a case.”

“And here is?”

“Pasadena. San Labrador.”

“Ah,” she said. “Old money, old secrets.”

“If you only knew how right you were.”

“ESP,” she said. “If the world ever stops strumming, I’ll get into tea leaves.”

“Or stock trading.”

“No, not that! Jail isn’t my thing.”

I laughed.

“Anyway,” she said.

“How’re you doing?”

“Fine.”

“How’s Mr. Panic’s guitar?”

“Just a scratch, really. It wasn’t even close to an emergency. I think he’s finally going off the deep end- too much sobriety.”

I laughed again. “I’d like to see you again, when things ease up.”

“Sure,” she said. “When things ease up.”

Silence.

“Soon,” I said, though I had nothing to back that up.

“That’s even better.”

I went back into the restaurant. There was a basket of bread and a glass of ice water on the table. Two of the lunching women had left; the other two were settling their check, with a pocket calculator and furrowed brows.

The bread smelled fresh- slices of whole wheat and baguettes tinged with anise- but Madeleine’s “light” meal had stuffed me and I pushed it aside. The woman who had seated me noticed and I thought I saw her flinch. I picked up the menu. The two customers left. The woman picked up their credit slip, glanced at it, and shook her head. After wiping the table, she came over to me, pencil at the ready. I ordered the most expensive coffee listed- triple espresso with a dash of Napoleon brandy- and a bowl of jumbo strawberries.

She brought the berries first- truth in advertising, they were as big as peaches- the coffee a few minutes later, still foaming.

I smiled at her. She looked worried.

“Everything okay, sir?”

“Great- terrific berries.”

“We get them from Carpenteria. Would you like some fresh cream?”

“No, thanks.” I smiled and let my eyes drift across the street. Wondering what was going on behind the Craftsman facade. Calculating the hours of therapy necessary to buy a quarter-of-a-million-dollar piece of paper. Trying to figure out how I’d deal with the Gabneys.

When the proprietress came back a few minutes later, the level of coffee in my cup was one third lower and only two strawberries were gone.

“Something the matter, sir?”

“Not at all- everything’s fine.” I sipped to prove it, then speared the most gargantuan of the strawberries on my fork.

“We import all our coffee,” she said. “Simpson and Veroni buy from exactly the same source but they charge twice as much.”

I had no idea who Simpson and Veroni were, but I smiled and shook my head and said, “Figures.” The empathy didn’t impress her. If this was her usual interpersonal style, I could see why the public wasn’t beating a path to her door.

I took another swallow and began working on the berry.

She lingered for a second, went into the kitchen, and began conferring with the chef.

I resumed looking out the window. Glanced at my watch: 2:35. Less than half an hour till show time. What would I say to Ursula Gabney?

The busty woman came out from the kitchen with the Sunday paper under one arm, sat down at one of the tables, and began reading. As she put aside the front section and picked up the Metro, our eyes met. She pulled away quickly. I gulped down the rest of my coffee.

Without rising, she said, “Anything else?”

“No, thanks.”

She brought me the check. I handed her a credit card. She took it, stared at it, returned with a slip, and said, “You’re a doctor?”

I realized then how I must have appeared to her: clothes I’d slept in, unshaven.

I said, “I’m a psychologist. There’s a clinic across the street. I’m on my way over there to talk to one of the doctors.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, looking doubtful.

“Don’t worry,” I said, putting on my best smile. “I’m not one of the patients. Been working a long shift- emergency case.”

That seemed to spook her, so I produced my license and med school faculty card. “Scout’s honor.”

She relaxed a bit, said, “What kind of things do they do over there?”

“Don’t really know,” I said. “Had any problems because of them?”

“Oh, no. It’s just that you don’t see too many people going in and out. And there’s no sign telling anyone what kind of place it is. I wouldn’t have even known what it was except one of my customers told me. It just made me wonder what they do in there.”

“I don’t know much about it myself. My specialty is working with children. One of my patients is the child of a woman who used to be treated there- maybe you noticed her. She used to come in an old Rolls-Royce- black and gray.”

She nodded. “I did see a car like that a couple of times, but I never noticed who drove it.”

“The woman who owned it disappeared a few days ago. It’s been pretty hard on the child. I came over to learn what I could.”

“Disappeared? What do you mean?”

“She set out for the clinic, never showed up, and hasn’t been seen.”

“Oh.” A new kind of anxiety, one that had nothing to do with balance sheets.

I looked up at her, fingered the credit slip.

“You know…” she said, then shook her head.

“What is it?”

“Nothing… It’s probably nothing. I shouldn’t mix in, in things that don’t concern me…”

“If you know anything-”

“No,” she said emphatically. “It’s not about your patient’s mother. Another one- of their patients- the customer I mentioned. The one who told me what kind of place it was. She used to come in here, didn’t seem as if there was anything wrong with her. She said she used to be afraid of going places- phobic- that’s why she was going for treatment, but she’d gotten a lot better. You would have thought she’d like the place- the clinic- be grateful. But she didn’t seem to- not that you should quote me on that. I really don’t need any headaches.”